212 
THE LADIES' FLORAL CABINET. 
June flood, it is a vast yellow sea. flooding the lowlands 
on either side, far as the eye can reach. 
"We are "transferred.” in railroad parlance, to the 
Cairo packet. The stuffy, hot cabin is intolerable. We 
drag our chairs out on the guards, and watch the mighty 
drift-strewn river. Waves from the bow rush by, white 
with foam, reddened now and then by the engine fires. 
Lights glimmer in the shadowy houses on the Kentucky 
shore, and set me dreaming, with foolish self-torture, of 
the "might have been.'' If David had never left our 
Kew England hills: if he had never come among the 
people who live in those shadowy houses; if he had 
never met the Kentucky girl he had married; if our 
childish love had grown into something stronger— 
"Gave.'" Madame's warning breaks shrilly in upon 
an old maid's silly dreams. 
"Ye vill tak our death: ze rivere air eez so damp.” 
Late in the night I am aroused from sleep by a lull in 
the whir of the boat's machinery. Rising upon my 
elbow, I look through the transom over the outer state¬ 
room door. The high embankment against which the 
boat is lying swarms with people, visible by the light 
of the burning pitch upon the bow. A clear, loud voice 
says: 
" Here's another break in the levee ! Shawnee will be 
under ten-foot water in twenty-four hours! ” 
Just after breakfast we reached our destination. Clay- 
ville is the typical southwestern Kentucky village, strag¬ 
gling along under towering bluffs. It cannot be a pretty 
town seen under most favorable circumstances: now, 
partially submerged, it is inexpressibly dreary. 
With much puffing and wheezing the little steamer 
effects a landing against a house on the river front. 
There are no other passengers for Clayville, so Madame 
and I disembark, by walking from the upper deck of the 
packet to the flat roof of the piazza. The watery deep 
between is bridged by the stage plank. 
Stranded amid a watery waste, standing upon the 
roof, we gaze after the swiftly-receding packet in blank 
dismay. But rescue is coming. A kindly, fcucclic 
countenance at a second-story window beams upon us. 
“This way, ladies: step this way!” the man calls. 
“The wharf-boat lit out las' night. Most anything's 
liable to light out when the Wabash gets on a high. 
Can't no ropes hold agin' her. She's the Ole Boy, she 
is!"’ 
By the assistance of this communicative, free-and- 
easy young man, we scramble through the window and 
follow him down stairs, or rather half-way down. The 
hall is, of course, flooded; a queer, little flat-bottom boat 
is tied to the newel-post, and rocks still in the waves 
made by the packet. 
“Wazereffery vare; ville eet tak ze house av;ay?" 
ruefully and apprehensively. 
The young man stares hard at Madame; never before, 
apparently, has he met the elderly Parisienne; but he 
understands readily enough. 
“ Lord, no ! you needn’t be skeered. 'Tain’t nuthin’ 
to be skeered at. The river always comes over Clayville 
—ef it goes anywheres—and ’tain’t never tuk no houses 
away yit! ” 
This colloquy takes place upon the stair; and we fur¬ 
ther explain that we wish to reach Mr. David Easten’s. 
Our guide —so he informs us—is the porter of the village 
hotel; but will take us to Mr. Easten’s in his beat, if we 
like. 
We don't like in the least, but there seems no other 
way. We take our places in the boat; the man, by 
means of a loug pole, pilots us safely through the door¬ 
way; our novel barque is on the highway, and we start. 
Madame makes the best of things; slio may possibly 
remember the trip is not of my planning. She calmly 
surveys the landscape; then says, with an air of deceit¬ 
ful admiration: 
“ Ect eez like Venice! ” 
Our gondolier stares harder than ever. 
The houses on either side of the street have a forlorn, 
deserted look, owing to the fact that the inhabitants 
have either vacated them or retired to the second floors. 
As we pass I muse upon the political economy which 
puts a town, where it must go, into the river once, some¬ 
times twice, per annum. Another more careful and 
discriminating glance at the debris floating in adjacent 
back yards demonstrates the superior judgment of the 
city fathers, who builded better than I knew. 
"Here we air!” cries the gondolier. And there, in 
the water, we very nearly are, indeed ! The boat strikes 
dry land with a thump, which almost tumbles us over¬ 
board. 
The munificent sum of a quarter is paid our gondolier, 
and we start up the steep path leading to the gate. As¬ 
cent of a steep hill convinces, as no argument can do, 
that one is no longer sc young as one was. Madame, in 
her jaunty way, trips smiling on before; but I notice 
with grim satisfaction that she, too, is panting when we 
reach the gate. 
Just inside is a dense thicket of yellow Lilies, tall and 
rank. The great golden flowers and long ribbon-like 
leaves lie trodden across the path. Through the dank 
tangle of flowers and weeds we struggle, and almost 
stumble into the open door-way before we see it. 
The house is an ambitious structure of wood, with 
many fantastic turrets and gable ends. It is overrun by 
Honeysuckle and gay June Roses. The air is heavy with 
their perfume. The hall is wide and long, with a dcor 
at each end. A Brussels carpet covers floor and stairs; 
bright Japanese panels hang on the wall. This much is 
seen at a glance, while vainly groping for a bell. Find¬ 
ing none, I knock. A swarm of children pour out of an 
adjoining room. 
"Does Mr. David Easten live here?” I ask. 
There is no answer from the children, who huddle up 
against the wall, like a covey of partridges, regardingus 
with shy curiosity. Then a voice says: 
“What is the matter?-what are j'ou children doing 
out there ? ” And a beautiful young woman comes into 
the hall. She hesitates a moment upon seeing us, then 
comes forward—a gracious young queen. “ Will you 
not come in?” she says. 
I introduce myself and Madame. Pier manner grows 
at once more cordial. 
“ I am most happy to see you,” she says. " Father 
hasn’t ceased talking of you since he learned where you 
were. He would have been bitterly disappointed if you 
had not come, and he would have gone to meet you this 
morning. He spoke of it, but we convinced him he 
was unreasonable; you could scarcely reach here before 
tc-morrow”—leading the way into the sitting-room. 
Upon the threshold she pauses and says: “ I believe I 
have forgotten to tell you my name; I am Marguerite 
Easten,” 
We cross the large, luxuriously furnished room and 
